There are tiny humans walking this earth who have no idea how much they’ve saved me.
My niece, my nephews, and my friends’ kids—my little tribe of chaos, sticky fingers, and unfiltered honesty. They are some of the brightest lights in my world, and they don’t even know it.
They call me Titi, and those two syllables are magic.
Every “Love you, Titi” feels like someone stamping love directly onto my heart. It’s permanent. Burned in. No matter what cancer takes from me, no one can ever take the sound of those words out of my chest.
Kids love differently than adults.
They don’t ask about my scans. They don’t flinch at my scars. They don’t care why I have to rest or why my hair looks different this week. They just see me. Titi. The one who will laugh at their nonsense jokes, read the same book ten times in a row, and sit cross-legged on the floor even when it hurts just to be in their world.
And their worlds? They’re magic.
My Dinosaur-Loving Nephew
My nephew lives in a world where dinosaurs never went extinct, and I’m lucky enough to be invited in. He can rattle off facts about T. rex teeth like he’s been studying them his whole life. He hands me little plastic triceratops and assigns me roles in his imaginary Jurassic adventures—usually I’m the scared human, sometimes the dino sidekick.
He doesn’t know it, but the way he lights up telling me about a new dinosaur fact pulls me out of my own head. He reminds me that life isn’t just blood tests and waiting rooms—it can also be roaring at invisible predators in the living room. He is all of the good things in the world. His heart is so big.
My Fearless Wild Niece
Then there’s my niece, my fearless little tornado. She climbs before she thinks, runs before she looks, and laughs in the face of every “be careful.” She is chaos wrapped in sunshine.
When she grabs my hand and pulls me into her world, I feel brave just by existing next to her. She doesn’t slow down for me, but she doesn’t leave me behind either. She treats me like I’m invincible, even on the days I’m not. She’s the living, running, giggling reminder that life is meant to be lived—loudly, joyfully, and without apology.
My “Goddaughters”
And then there are my girls—my “goddaughters.”
They’re old enough to tell me secrets, to roll their eyes at the world, to share inside jokes that make us laugh until we cry. They talk to me about their crushes, their worries, and their dreams, like I’m a safe little corner of their universe.
I feel honored to be trusted with those pieces of them.
Sometimes they’ll send me a silly meme or text me something they can’t tell anyone else, and I’ll laugh in my bed or in a chemo chair, suddenly feeling like life is bigger than IV poles and nausea. I get to be part of their becoming, and that’s a gift I don’t take lightly.
These kids—they’re medicine in a way no doctor could prescribe.
When I’m with them, I’m not “the sick one.” I’m not the girl counting pills or fighting exhaustion. I’m Titi, the dinosaur sidekick. I’m the queen in a blanket fort. I’m the safe keeper of secrets, the co-conspirator in inside jokes, the grown-up who will always listen.
Mojo, of course, pretends to be indifferent to all of them. He sits nearby, silently judging, like the world’s tiniest babysitter. But I’ve seen the way he leans against my niece when she slows down long enough to hug him, or the way he positions himself between my nephew and the door like he’s on patrol. He loves them too—he just has a reputation to protect.
I think about these kids a lot when I imagine the future, the near and the far.
I want them to always know that they were some of the brightest lights in my life. That even on my hardest days, their drawings, their hugs, their silly jokes, and their “Love you, Titi” were the things that reminded me life is worth holding on to.
And if one day I’m not here, I hope they’ll remember me not as the “sick” grown-up, but as the Titi who always loved them loudly, fully, and without limits.
The one who roared like a T. rex, wore a tiara in a blanket fort, and could always be trusted with a dream.
One day, these kids will grow taller than me, their lives will get busy, and maybe their memories of blanket forts and dinosaur roars will blur. But I hope, deep down, they’ll always feel the love I poured into every hug, every giggle, every whispered “Love you, Titi”. I don’t get to have my own kids, so I give them all the love in my heart—every bit of it. That love is forever—etched into my heart, stitched into the fabric of their childhoods, and wrapped around them like an invisible blanket, even on the days I can’t be there to tuck them in.
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